


New House, New Cobwebs

by CaledonRetreat



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: A bit dark?, Eventual Romance, F/F, Happy Ending, Implied Sexual Content, Romance, Short
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-11
Updated: 2017-08-30
Packaged: 2018-12-13 21:09:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,516
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11768436
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CaledonRetreat/pseuds/CaledonRetreat
Summary: Amélie is herself again, but the world has left her behind. In a world where Overwatch is a defunct relic and soldiers are history, she must rely on the kindness of an old foe to keep up and rediscover what it is to live again.





	1. Afterwatch & Oxton

**Author's Note:**

> Hey, Deacon again! Please enjoy my more romantic and less sinful F/F Overwatch fic (see 'A Warm Welcome Home' for the filthy bits)! And of course a big thank you again to Seren for letting me post to this account <3
> 
> Comments are always appreciated xoxox

_Patient spider, weaver, writer. Pulls the threads of our fate tighter._

The nib of the pen hummed across the surface of the paper for the eleventh time. The words were getting more and more fluent, but they still didn’t feel right. ‘Amélie Guillard’. Two words. Fourteen letters. Over twenty years of memories and sights and sounds, and yet none of them felt real anymore. That made the ex-Talon agent feel a little better in a strange way; there was sadness to feel at her almost lost identity. And where there was sadness, there was also hope. Hope that she could be Amélie Guillard again.

Dr. Angela Ziegler, one of the greatest medical minds of the century, had been a part of the panel that had declared Amélie fit for rehabilitation. She still remembered the day a strike team had intercepted a transport convoy that she had been guarding with the remainders of Talon. How many people had she killed that day before they subdued her? She hated thinking of those times, the times she had earned her moniker. ‘Widowmaker’, a bringer of misery and loss.

Now, her only shooting was the gulps of water and medications, her only targets quotas of exercise and interaction. The envelope from Afterwatch on her dresser, regarding her next physiotherapy check-up, remained unopened.

Afterwatch, a government-funded organisation dedicated to providing counselling and housing for the agents and staff of the disbanded Overwatch, brave men and women who fought to keep the peace worldwide. Dr. Ziegler and Winston were seniors there, and Amélie had received multiple prompts to go and live amongst people with similar experiences, for the sake of her recovery.

How could she be around those people? The people who still saw the now faint blue tinge to her skin and only saw the face of the enemy. No, she would never escape the name ‘Widowmaker’ there. Instead, she had taken the funds that were to be used to house her in the Afterwatch veteran communities and moved to a cramped flat in an overshadowed part of London, not far away, but enough. People around here didn’t look too closely at others, and the extra money she had funded her one passion.

Though the brainwashing had been severe, her recovery and therapy with Dr. Ziegler had reignited her love for ballet. That love kept her going most days, and through the nights when all she could hear was the crack of a rifle and the clang of a smoking casing flying into the air, feel the buck of the gun butt against her shoulder, and the rush of seeing another living being fall.

Her studio was local, luckily. The woman who ran it didn’t have the funds to rent a large studio, so operated out of a converted 20th century office. The room was small, only housing six or so performers at once, but it was enough. Amélie had not been recognised, luckily, but had drawn odd looks. However, she paid, so the manager couldn’t care less as to her curious skin pigmentation.

But it wasn’t enough. Ziegler had been clear on the necessity for comradery, if not friendship, to help her reassert her identity as one unique of her assassin persona. Amélie did not speak to the other young women in the class. She came, she danced, forgot about the world for an hour or two, then went back to her apartment and waited for the next week. But who was there? Not Afterwatch. Not Talon, either. Those people were either dead or imprisoned. It made her feel odd to think that the people she had worked alongside were given no quarter, whilst she was given grants and living expense payments for simply existing.

There was Ziegler. She liked to keep a close eye on Amélie, which she appreciated. She always knew that the Swiss had a good heart, but research and responsibilities kept them on a strictly professional basis. Winston too was conducting research and wasn’t much for talking anyway, the once-Security Chief Amari simply did not like or trust her, and the rest of the agency was disbanded. Beside, they were the late Gérard Lacroix’s friends. They mourned his loss. She was his killer. She wasn’t one of them.

But there was one aberration. A young woman from the Afterwatch residential tower. An old soldier, like her. At first, their meeting had been at the behest of Dr. Ziegler. Amélie recognised her immediately; they had fought many times. The old her, the alter-ego, would have responded with hostility, but Amélie simply said hello. The young woman who sat at the side of Ziegler replied with polite indifference. She could see the suspicion and distrust.

She was a local legend in these parts, always attracting attention wherever she went. With a history like hers, it was hard for her not to. She had bumped into Amélie on her way to the subway station, and interrogated her on the purpose of her sports bag.

There was something about her that pushed Amélie to spilling everything. Perhaps it was her thick regional accent that made her seem child-like, her confidant stance, her insistent and undying smile, or even the shock of brown hair that never seemed to behave.

Amélie had also made the mistake of mentioning the tower block where she was living.

“Oh, just down the rail!” the Cockney had chirped with a smile. “I’ll drop in some time. Us tough gals need to stick together, y’know.”

That was three weeks ago. Letters had been slipped under her door, and increasingly insistent and comical posters of the artist’s own scowling face had been stuck to the wall facing Amélie’s door. This brunette was not going to give up, she realised as she took down the fifth and most clear poster yet.

It was a very crude drawing, done in the finest ball point pen to hand, of a stick figure with brown hair hitting a stick figure drawn in blue pen over the head with what appeared to be a newspaper. This time, a business card for a cafe one tube stop away was pinned to it, a time and date written on the back. It was just after ballet in a few days, and near to the studio.

Amélie turned over the sheet of paper she had been using to practice her handwriting. It was the poster, now crumpled at the edges from use. She hadn’t gotten rid of this one, and she couldn't put her finger on why. Above her, a notice board hung. Notes of food to buy, when to take which tablets and when to contact Afterwatch. And the card for the cafe. It embarassed her and made her uncomfortable to think of going, but what else was she going to do?

Besides, this was part of her recovery. Though when she told herself that, she knew she was lying. She was going to see the young woman because otherwise she would sit there by herself all evening, stubborn and unwilling to admit defeat.

Again, she knew that was a lie too. She was going because Lena Oxton had met her in what was now a past life as an enemy, and again as Amélie. Aside from their first fleeting and formal meeting, she didn’t flinch or stare at her skin, and she didn’t sneer or curse under her breath; she invited her to a cafe and refused to leave her alone.

After the days of boredom and even loneliness, that excited Amélie.

Lena Oxton had done something to her that day, on that random encounter in a backstreet of London. She had bewitched her, made her feel like a human being again, and Amélie craved more.


	2. The Speed of the World

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hoiya! A little lighter this time, less brooding and more sweet sweet fluff :D  
> -Deacon

Lena could see them in the corner of her eye. She tried to focus on the small cup of tea in front of her, but they were distracting. She didn’t mind them wanting to interact, she was used to it by now. But just _looking_ , what did that solve?

She continued to fold the napkin. She was never very good at it, but it would do. On the edge of her very unimpressive napkin-shuriken, she wrote, ‘ _The world could always use more heroes_ ’.

She flicked it towards the small family across the aisle of the cafe, aiming for the empty plate in front of their little girl. She jumped when she realised she was detected, and her parents gasped in mock surprise. The mother smiled at Lena appreciatively. The little girl picked up the napkin and mouthed the words. Her jaw lolled and she looked at Lena in awe. Lena laughed to herself and waved.

Where was that woman? Widowmak- Amélie had looked to be on the edge of shellshock a few weeks back when Lena had bumped into her on Basil Street, gym gear and all. She could tell there was something very different in her head now, Dr. Ziegler had done some amazing work.

Still, she wasn’t here. Lena slumped into her seat and sipped at her drink, feeling a little miserable. Did she really not want to come? Was there some residue bad blood between them that she’d been too boisterous to notice? She’d torn down the notices and not answered the door, maybe she didn’t care. Maybe she-

“Um, hello. Am I late?” murmured a voice. Lena jumped and looked up. Her hair dishevelled and jacket damp from the evening drizzle outside, Amélie looked nervous and out of place.

“Oh, not at all love. Only been here a few minutes myself. Go on, sit yourself down, I’m not gonna bite.” That wasn’t strictly true; she’d been here for almost twenty five minutes, but it would be very un-British indeed to admit that.

Amélie sat down across from her, making a big show of setting her bag down in the corner of the booth. A waitress came over to check on the new arrival. It seemed typical for Amélie to be a coffee drinker. They shared an awkward smile when their eyes caught, both aware of the silence thusfar.

“I’m sorry for not responding sooner,” said Amélie. Her accent was still thick, voice alluring even in the din of the cafe. “It has been hard for me to adjust to life here.”

“No need to say sorry, I was going a bit mad myself. Being surrounded by burly hard-heads at the complex all day wears on you a bit.” She forced a laugh, and Amélie smiled. That was nice to see, very human.

The waitress reappeared with a gently steaming pot of coffee, condensation beading the side in spite of the damp, cold evening air that crept through the door of the cafe. Lena thanked her by name. The woman smiled and looked to Amélie.

“Not often that our Tracer brings new folks to us.” She leaned a little closer, speaking with a comical exaggeration, “We’ve been trying to get her hitched for months but she won’t have it.”

“Is that so?” Amélie answered nervously, trying to appear interested. Why were the people here so brash? Lena cleared her throat loudly.

“Oooh, French girl are we?” continued the waitress, Helen. “Maybe you’re what our Tracer’s been looking for. ‘cause there’s a lovely girl who works weekends at the Red Horse, do you know the Red? Anyway, Polish girl she is, comes by here after work and I’ve introduced them. ‘cept this one here’s giving it all this, ‘Oh she’s not my type Helen, she’s a bit old Helen, I think she’s married Helen!’”

“Thank you for the coffee,” Lena said loudly. She shook her head in disbelief as the waitress winked at Amélie and slunk off. “Unbelievable. She’s trying to show off to you.” The silence crept in again. Lena knew that look on other people's faces now. Eyes slightly wide as if in surprise, still as a predator stalking prey as if trying to keep a question back.

Lena sighed. “You can ask if you want, y’know,” she grumbled.

“Ah. Are you…” said Amélie, very, very lightly.

“Yeah, I am.” Amélie looked thoughtful, even scared.

“Oh. Does that make this-”

“Cor, that coffee smells nice, never got the taste for it myself!” Lena spouted. She poured the inky black liquid from the tall pot into Amélie’s cup, wincing as she squeezed the hot metal insistently. “Now drink your drink, tell me about this dancing of yours. Ballet, I think you said?”

And so, Amélie talked. At first she was stiff, peachy-blue fingers dancing across the hot porcelain of her mug. She ‘umm’d and ‘ahh’d, searching for words in English that didn’t come immediately, pausing to look out of the door as she thought of something else to say every now and then.

The warm amber lights of the old cafe highlighted her sharp features; her slightly pointed nose, razor-like cheekbones casting slight shadows on her cheeks. Graceful neck disappearing under a high turtleneck she’d put on to hide her sports bra. More sophisticated, Lena decided, very nice.

Then something miraculous happened. Maybe it was the growing heat of the cafe, the completion of her first small coffee, or something deeper down, but Amélie shed her jacket at last. Then she leaned forwards, meeting Lena’s eye properly.

The woman was ravenous. It was almost a bit scary. She gestured and swung her hands about, her voice growing in scale and confidence as she divulged more and more about her dancing. She opened her bag and showed the tight, shiny material of her uniform.

“Though where we go to dance is small, they cannot fit many people,” she explained, pouring her third small cup of coffee. “They say we may, um, merge with another group and perform in the coming festival. There is an exposition next week but I had not paid much mind to it.” She giggled and sipped her drink. “Performing, me. To think of it! I haven’t performed in a show since Gerard took me to-”

She stopped. She blinked. A soft exhale, and her eyes fell. Lena had been leaning against her hand, content with watching her partner bubble and fawn over her costume, and panicked. She’d heard of Sergeant Gerard, knew the story. What was she supposed to say? Amélie was sighing, looking over to her coat. Lena didn’t want her to leave, but what do you say to a war widow?

Thoughts swirled in Amélie’s head, the melancholy memories that made the London rains seem all the more grey. The brunette across from her, usually smiling, now looked shocked and frozen in place. That look hurt her.

What was she doing here? The booth in which she sat wasn’t far from the statue erected to honour the omnic she had shot dead. Again she wondered, how could she be around these people? Coming here was a mistake.

Lena stood, her face redding and her chest shifting quickly.

“Um, Miss. Oxton?”

She span around the table, bumping Amélie aside with her thigh and forcing her further into the booth. She clumsily slapped her hand on top of Amélie’s, looking her dead in the eye.

“Don’t go,” she pleaded quietly.

They both blinked a little. It was hard to tell which one looked more shocked by the flurry of movement, the sudden closeness, the contact.

“That is, I mean, I don’t want you to go. I like you Amélie, I think we could be friends,” Lena blathered. She sighed and shook her head. “No that’s not right, I sound about 15. What I mean is you’re not alone here. When I first saw you in Dr. Ziegler’s office I didn’t know what to think, but I feel like I’ve met you for real now. And you’re good to talk to, you’re fun company. Maybe a bit awkward, but you’re lovely. Just… give me some more of your time? Please?”

Lena was panting, the words she’d spouted just as impromptu as this close contact. Her hand felt hot against Amélie’s own and she could smell the perfume the shorter woman had worn. The fashionably ripped denim jeans pressed against the still-damp material of her sports bottoms were weighty and warm.

And then there were her eyes. So big and brown that she had to keep herself from falling right in. Seconds went by and Amélie realised she hadn’t vocalised an answer. What did one say to that?

“Alright Lena. If that is what you want,” she said quietly. A smile bloomed on the younger woman’s face, flashing her full smile. “I don’t suppose you could, um? My leg?”

Lena gasped as she looked down. She was more or less sat on the poor woman’s lap. She apologised and slipped off, leaning across the table and grabbing her tea pot to distract herself.

Later, she would look back on this moment and cringe until she couldn’t even look herself in the mirror. But for now, Amélie’s staying would be enough.

 _Say something Tracer!_ her inner self screamed. _Anything!_

“You sound cute when you say my name,” she said.

Scratch that. Parking her arse on her leg wasn’t to be the source of her shame.

That was.

“I’m glad you find my accent funny,” crooned the dulcet voice beside her. She was still close, it would have made Lena shiver if she wasn’t so embarrassed.

Mouthful of tea, she turned to find her partner smiling slyly between pursed lips. A tinge of pink stained the tips of Amélie’s ears, now visible as she swept her drying, frizzy hair over her shoulder and retired her pony tail. She really was quite beautiful.

“No, I didn’t mean-”

“Non non chérie, it is quite alright, I am used to being laughed at.” She turned her head away as if in pain. Lena panicked, blubbering her apologies. It made her laugh to see that. Lena calmed too, a satisfied smile on her face. “Maybe we can do this again, Lena. It is nice to have someone to talk to, even if you do try to crush me.”

“Careful with that love, I’m still in shape. Not letting this get away from me,” she said warningly, patting her muscular thigh. Amélie thought again. A plan started to form.

Did she dare? She supposed she did. She was herself again. She had the chance to remake the life she had before anew, better than before. There was no way she was going to sit in her new flat and let the world get away from her. This young woman, this hero of Overwatch, had been through it all too, she was still here, still hanging on. Why couldn’t Amélie?

“You know Lena,” she started slowly, planning her words carefully. Lena smiled at her, ear studs twinkling in the intimate light, eyes alight and alive and perfect. “I think I will take up my instructor's offer to perform. We get a free ticket-”

“I’d love to Amélie, thank you!” Lena said, clapping. Amélie blinked.

“But I haven’t told you when or where it is yet.”

Lena shrugged, still smiling. Amélie laughed to herself and shook her head.

“How am I supposed to keep up with the speed of the world with you in it?” she said quietly.

Lena didn’t hear, luckily. She was checking the time on her phone, pulling a face.

“I think I better start heading home, Amélie. Are you going to be alright going back by yourself?”

“Hm? Oh, oui, it is not far. How will I-”

Lena grabbed her phone over the table, prodded her to unlock it, and started flicking and tapping. She pulled a face, trying to be unattractive, and Amélie heard the digital shutter of a camera.

“There you go. Give me some warning so I can pick out something nice. I’ll pay for this time, but you’re on next time.” She stood, pulling her thin hoodie on. Mid-twenties and she still dressed like a teenage rocker. She smiled and leaned over the table. “See you then, Amélie.” She pecked her on the cheek, and left with a wave and a smile.

Amélie sat there for a few moments. Cups clinked and water heaters hissed. The last few late patrons grumbled their low conversations. For the first time in months, Amélie felt the world ease a little, slow down. Her cheek was still hot from the casual brush of Lena’s lips. Her turtleneck smelled of the sweet perfume that had rubbed off.

She picked up her cup and swirled the coffee. Dr. Ziegler would be pleased; she could feel the warm tread of happiness seeping back into her.

“Until next time, chérie.”


	3. The World Can Wait

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Final chapter! A big thank you to those who stuck with it until the last chapter, I really hope you enjoyed reading. I've appreciated all the comments and kudos, very flattered! Let me know if you enjoyed and suggest the next pairing in the comments!  
> \- Deacon
> 
>  
> 
> **Check out Seren's 'Breathe Into Me' for more Widowmaker x Tracer!**

Lena looked up in awe. The Royal Albert Hall was a mighty building, proud and imposing against the skyline, rotund and lit by hundreds of lights. The stonework had been repaired and remastered countless times, and but the architecture had been lovingly kept the same. A monument to a past time, when she had been a little girl who loved to watch the RAF parade through the skies.

Sadly, she wasn’t going into that building. She was going into the Imperial College building over the road. It wasn’t as grand as the other building. It was sleek and black and made of metal, with large panes of glass forming photo-sensitive window membranes that powered the internal lights. Impressive, but not _pretty_.

It turned out that Amélie’s dance group had connections with the Imperial College Drama Society, and they’d manage to wrangle three of their six into a larger performance. The taller, slender woman had accompanied Lena on two more trips to the cafe since inviting her, and it made her happy to see that the former Talon agent was becoming her own person. She had never really interacted with Amélie before the incident, so she wasn’t sure what kind of person she used to be.

But that didn’t matter, because _her_ Amélie was happy, clever, and very easy on the eyes, even if she was still a bit awkward at some points. Checking and double-checking that her cocktail dress looked presentable and her hair was holding in place, she headed towards the show.

She felt out of place here; it actually made her feel odd to not be recognised. In the Afterwatch blocks, she couldn’t move for familiar faces and fans. Throughout the the boroughs and shopping districts and subways of the city, she was known, and it felt like home. It was a little exciting to be here, surrounded by people with high noses who didn’t look at her somewhat low-budget dress and youthful face twice.

As she took her seat in the auditorium, close to the front with the other special guests, she ruminated on her journey. She took the time to see the statue of Mondatta before heading for Kings Row Station. The memory of facing down the whistling rifle round, with the backdrop of Talon’s chief sharpshooter Widowmaker’s long dark hair streaming behind her scope, was still vivid to her. She still remembered the relief when she re-materialised on the rooftop, and the void that formed when she realised the leader of the Shambali lay dead in an ungraceful sprawl.

That seemed an age ago now, a time before the therapy and the anti-depressants. Now that she was sat in the theater, waiting for Miss Amélie Guillard to perform an art she adored talking about, listening to the low drawl of educated chatter as the final guests took their seats instead of news about the latest bombings, she decided that peace-time suited her much better.

A hush came over the crowd as the lights dimmed in the auditorium. The stage brightened, casting a limelight to the small band that sat below. A gentle score began, dreamy and faint, and a very soft patter of applause crept from the crowd as the first troupe emerged.

They were nice, Lena decided, but she had to admit that after thirty minutes and several performances, she was a bit bored. She knew Amélie was only in certain acts, but boy oh boy, were the others dry. _She’d better bloody appreciate me waiting like this_ , Lena thought sourly as she applauded yet another professional group.

Finally, they arrived at the penultimate performance. The next song was more dramatic and mysterious. The deep thrum from the strings section and the ascending flutes demanded her attention, and Lena found herself gasping and holding her breath as a figure emerged from the wings; long and slender legs in perfect form, sweeping her arms as she glided to center stage en pointe.

She wore a tight white backless bodice, legs decorated in twirling ribbons. Beneath her big dark eyes, narrowed in professional focus, white makeup had been heavily applied to contrast with the hue of her almost-pale skin. The outfit was finished with a headdress shaped like the beak and plumage of a white swan, fastening her long hair in place.

As she came to rest for the audience to patter another applause, Lena realised that she was staring and unmoving. She tried to applaud for Amélie and her big moment, but her hands just wouldn’t respond. She eventually managed to drag her heavy, clammy palms up to applaud and took a deep breath, the first in what felt like an age.

As a familiar score began and Amélie began to dance, it finally occurred to Lena that Amélie Guillard was the most captivating, most beautiful thing she had ever seen. She felt her heart begin to hammer in her chest and was surprised her chronal accelerator didn’t shake loose. Thoughts began racing about what this could mean for her, for Amélie, for them.

She had always liked girls, that was just Lena Oxton. But what about Amélie, the woman who had previously been happily married to a man, a heroic field agent who died tragically?

Yes, the more she thought about it, the more she knew for sure; her interest in Amélie hadn’t been as platonic as she had thought. She had fallen for her like a teenager, and that was embarrassing enough of a thought for her to begin blushing in the crowd.

Prancing from side to side, demonstrating incredible flexibility and grace, Amélie dominated the stage. The whole audience was captivated by her display, and Lena felt guilty that she was absorbed in her own concerns. But what if this was a mistake? She didn’t want to lose Amélie as a friend, they had both been making progress through one another.

By the time Amélie had finished her solo performance and had been joined by the entire troupe for the finale, Lena had exhausted all paths of thought and had come to a conclusion; she couldn’t do without Amélie in her life now, for better or for worse. She hadn’t been caught by the spider’s web; she’d walked through the front door and had made herself at home.

***

A few girls from the West End Seniors approached her, smiling and congratulating her. It was all a bit overwhelming, but she thanked them anyway. Amélie was attracting a lot of attention in the dressing room, much more than she had done when they were first preparing and practicing.

The show had been wonderful. It felt so liberating to perform again. The exactness of it, the satisfaction in feeling that every sweep and bend and leap was done properly, the music weaving into her every movement. It made her wonder how she had ever lived without her art.

She hoped it would be enough to impress Lena. Despite her worries that she would find the seat empty, the young woman had dutifully attended. Amélie had peaked through the wings half-way through the show and she felt a flush of panic; Lena wore the blank expression of someone who was direly bored. She would have to apologise for making her sit through it all. She hadn’t even looked particularly happy when the final applause came, but smiled back at her when Amélie had caught her eye.

Dressed in loose clothes that were light and comfy for the sake of her aching muscles, she pushed out of the fire exit at the side of the building. The Thames was a little too far for the salty, freezing air to catch her here, but London always felt cold. She hugged herself tightly, pushing her sports bag a little higher on her shoulder and searching the crowd of cooing family and partners that waited for the performers for her own attendee.

There, a plume of neat and handsomely styled hair bobbed through the crowd. Lena appeared, rubbing her own bare arms against the cold. Her dress showed the goose bumps on her faintly muscled shoulders, skirt poofy and bright red and wonderfully vivid against the regal blacks and whites of the rest of the crowd. How like her.

“Not saying that I know much about dancing, but I reckon you made the show,” Lena said, smiling through chattering teeth. Amélie smiled guiltily and removed the raincoat she had brought with her.

“I’m sorry if it was boring for you Lena. You do not have to come to the next one if you do not want to. But I do appreciate having a friend in the audience, it was unnerving to be in front of a crowd again.”

As she took the coat slowly, Lena made a strange face, one Amélie hadn’t seen before. Her lips pursed and her eyebrows waved uncertainly. Had she said something odd? Out of term? Was “friend” too strong a term? It hurt a little to think that, after sharing a few evenings laughing and talking, that Lena thought of them as only acquaintances.

“Don’t be daft,” the brunette mumbled. She pulled the too-big raincoat over her, stepped close to Amélie and wrapped the sides around her. “Bit big for me, you might as well have some,” she explained with a cocky smirk, as if she was doing Amélie a great favour in wearing her coat. She did look so picturesque, so charming, so… beautiful tonight. “No Amélie, I had a great time, I had no idea you were so talented. But I’ve got to say something or else I’m gonna start losing sleep over it.”

Amélie felt her breath hitch, and the world seemed to stop. There were those eyes again, so close to her. The freckles that decorated pristine skin and cute nose, lips chewed from impatience, the smell of her hair and perfume making Amélie dizzy. She felt as if she were in a daze, sharing the shorter woman’s warmth and waiting for her concerned expression to break into speech again.

“I’ve enjoyed our time together, and I really appreciate you being around,” she began slowly, these words clearly rehearsed but nervous nevertheless. She looked down and away, eyes occasionally flickering up to meet Amélie’s. “And it’s not that I’ve been trying to be dishonest with you or hide something from you, ‘cause I’ve only just noticed it tonight myself, but I feel like there’s something else to it all. Do you get what I mean?”

“Um. Sorry, no.”

Lena sighed in frustration, bouncing on her heels quickly.

“I’m not explaining this right, it made a lot more sense in my head. What I’m trying to say is that there’s a ‘we’. No, I don’t mean there is a ‘we’! I mean I’ve just been considering it tonight, ‘cause you know we’ve been going to the caf for a while now and I wondered what you thought. So… What do you reckon? Does… that make any more sense?”

Amélie tilted her head. Had she missed some key piece of local dialect?

“I’m sorry Lena, I don’t think I understand.”

Again, she sighed. Clenching her jaw tightly, she looked Amélie dead in the eye with such determination, it was almost scary.

“I’m trying to say that my world changed when you came into it, in a way I didn’t expect. It's changed in so many ways and now, I can’t imagine a world that I live in that doesn’t have you in it, Amélie. And I know this might, might push you out of my world for good, but I have to know.”

Tears were pricking her eyes, and it was only with that glisten did Amélie realise what was being said to her. She lost her breath, and suddenly she was back in her youth. A handsome young man, a daring smile, an outstretched hand. It was all so familiar, but she was utterly stunned.

Something shifted in her heart, and a brisk English wind grumbled its impatience. Lena was waiting, close and desperate.

“I thought I had nothing left to care for in the world, after everything that has happened,” she found herself saying. “Talon, Gerard, all of it. I wasn’t scared of it getting away from me, leaving me behind. But now that I have met you, I have a reason to try, to keep going. If you’ll help me keep up?”

Lena’s eyes searched hers with a flicker of suspicion, before widening. She blinked away a few tears and Amélie found herself stifled as well. Lena giggled and Amélie felt her hands wrap around her waist. She pushed herself up on her toes and kissed Amélie, clumsy and too hard.

It was perfect. Her soft skin, her rough lips, her wet cheeks, all of them a piece of Amélie that she never knew was missing. The burning heat of the kiss was broken all too soon, and Amélie closed her eyes tightly, trying her best to memorise the feeling.

From somewhere beyond the darkness of her closed eyes, Lena giggled.

“You alright, love? What, never been kissed by a girl before?”

“Non. But I could get used to it, I think.” She followed Lena’s lead, wrapping her arms around her back, earning an encouraging smile. She was giggling at herself now. How embarrassing could tonight get? Luckily, the crowd had long since dispersed, leaving them in the dark, illuminated only by the glow of distant street lights.

Somewhere far away, the enhanced toll of Big Ben sounded the late hour. Lena turned instinctively to the noise to count the heavy sounds, careful not to part from the embrace for even a moment.

“It’s 11 already,” she said. She looked back to Amélie. “Didn’t you say you were going for a job interview tomorrow?”

Ah. She had totally forgotten about that.

“Oh, yes. I should go home.”

“Yeah.”

She didn’t move. Neither did Lena. They stood in silence for a moment, appreciating one another in their own reverie. Suddenly, a flicker of mischief entered Lena’s eyes. She tried to hide it behind her smile, but she shuffled and kicked the back of her heels like a child who had been caught pilfering sweets.

“Your flat’s a few more stops away,” she pointed out coyly. “Maybe, if you want to hit the hay as soon as possible to be ready for tomorrow, you could stay with me?”

Again, Amélie felt her heart skip a beat, a flush of giddy excitement and trepidation taking her breath. The light way Lena held her around her hips told her she could say no. After all, she had never even _thought_ about… that. But that face, how could she say no?

***

They were laughing by the time they reached the door. Every clumsy, rushed kiss was scorching and fleeting. They giggled incoherently, delighting in snatching their lips away from the other and watching the playful frustration evolve into another deeper, harsher kiss.

They slipped into the dark flat and Lena practically dragged Amélie across the dark interior. They bumbled into her bedroom, the lights glowing dimly, and Lena hurriedly shoved a pile of dresses that hadn’t made the final cut off the bed.

Then Amélie had her back in her arms, breathlessly kissing her and being kissed like never before. The eagerness in the brunette, the unapologetic passion and desire in every satisfied growl, it was driving her mad.

Pushing aside her doubts and her fear, she found herself moving towards the bed. Clothes were being quickly pulled away, and with every heartbeat Amélie found herself enveloped by more and more warm skin.

Her bare back hit the sheets and she felt reservation tickle her for a moment. Lena was as beautiful underneath her clothes as she was in them, limber and beautifully proportioned. Amélie could not think of someone more perfect.

She leaned down to kiss her again, a tenderness that soothed her worries. Amélie snaked her arms around Lena’s shoulders and pulled her closer, her pert breasts strange and exciting to feel against her own. They shared a long kiss, and both of them knew they had made the right choice.

Amélie felt good about that thought. This was _right_.

Lena broke away, smiling, and Amélie knew that she wasn’t going to be satisfied with just kissing and contact. The brunette gave a sly wink and a smile before shifting her way further down the bed.

Amélie was not an inexperienced woman, nor was she a prude, so it felt silly to admit that she was a little nervous about doing things with another woman, but she trusted Lena.

Her nerves were unfounded, as Lena showed herself to be very experienced, and very, very good. All thoughts of a long sleep disappeared as Amélie hissed and sighed and pulled on the sheets. She gave herself to late night, and to her old foe.

***

Morning had come. Amélie awoke to her alarm in confusion at first, feeling an unfamiliar pillow beneath her head and the strange feeling of bed sheets against her naked body.

Then it all rushed back to her. The performance, the kiss, her night of passion with-

A weight stirred behind her, accompanied by a gentle moan of protest at the beeping alarm. A lightly tanned arm snaked over her waist and pulled her closer. Amélie allowed herself a sigh of pleasure at the feeling of a warm body curled around her, Lena’s forehead pressed against the nape of her neck.

Part of her struggled to believe this was real. But enough of her believed otherwise, and that was enough for now; she wouldn’t fade or disappear, she wouldn’t lose herself.

The alarm on her smartphone protested her train of thought, cawing loudly to remind her of her impending job interview. She was already going to be late. Lena hummed again, rapping her fingers against Amélie’s stomach, a dazed attempt to stop the noise herself.

Amélie thought for a moment. She turned the phone off and Lena sighed in relief. Careful not to disturb her drowsy partner too much, Amélie rolled and slid herself back under covers. Lena’s arm was still over her, and her tousled brown hair stuck up defiantly at all angles. 

Amélie ran her hand over Lena’s cheek softly, and the younger woman turned to kiss her palm.

“Mornin’, love,” she said, eyes still closed and smiling like a Cheshire cat. “Haven’t you got somewhere to go to?”

“I think the world can wait one more day for me, chérie.”


End file.
